"You have been guilty of a series of unfortunate mistakes, Mr.
Harley," continued the speaker. "Notably, you have relied upon
the clumsy device of disguise. To the organization in which you
have chosen to interest yourself, this has provided some mild
amusement. Your pedlar of almanacs was a clever impersonation,
but fortunately your appearance at the Savoy had been
anticipated, and no one was deceived."

Paul Harley did not reply. He concluded, quite correctly, that
the organization had failed to detect himself in the person of
the nervous cobbler. He drew courage from this deduction.
Fire-Tongue was not omniscient.

"It is possible," continued the unseen speaker, in whom Harley
had now definitely recognized Ormuz Khan's secretary, "that you
recently overheard a resolution respecting yourself. Your death,
in fact, had been determined upon. Life and death being
synonymous, the philosopher contemplates either with equanimity."

"I am contemplating the latter with equanimity at the moment,"
said Harley, dryly.

"The brave man does so," the Hindu continued, smoothly. "The
world only seems to grow older; its youth is really eternal, but
as age succeeds age, new creeds must take the place of the old
ones which are burned out. Fire, Mr. Harley, sweeps everything
from its path irresistibly. You have dared to stand in the path
of a fiery dawn; therefore, like all specks of dust which clog
the wheels of progress, you must be brushed aside."

"It is a little thing to those who know the truth," the speaker
resumed. "To the purblind laws of the West it may seem a great
thing. We seek in Rome to do as Rome does. We judge every man as
we find him. Therefore, recognizing that your total disappearance
might compromise our movements in the near future, we have
decided to offer you an alternative. This offer is based upon the
British character. Where the oath of some men is a thing of
smoke, the word of honour of an Englishman we are prepared to
accept."

"Many thanks," murmured Harley. "On behalf of Great Britain I
accept the compliment."

"We have such faith in the completeness of our plans, and in the
nearness of the hour of triumph, that if you will pledge yourself
to silence, in writing, you will not be molested in any way. You
occupy at the moment the apartment reserved for neophytes of a
certain order. But we do not ask you to become a neophyte.
Disciples must seek us, we do not seek disciples. We only ask for
your word that you will be silent."

"You are sustaining yourself with false hopes, Mr. Harley. You
think you have clues which will enable you to destroy a system
rooted in the remote past. Also you forget that you have lost
your freedom."

Paul Harley offered no further answer to the speaker concealed
behind the violet curtain.

"Do not misunderstand us," the voice continued. "We bind you to
nothing but silence."

"In spite of your refusal, time for consideration will be given
to you."

Faintly Paul Harley detected the sounds made by Ormuz Khan and
his secretary in withdrawing. The light beneath the curtain
disappeared.

For perhaps a space of two hours, Paul Harley sat smoking and
contemplating the situation from every conceivable angle. It was
certainly desperate enough, and after a time he rose with a weary
sigh, and made a second and more detailed examination of the
several apartments.

It availed him nothing, but one point he definitely established.
Escape was impossible, failing outside assistance. A certain
coldness in the atmosphere, which was perceptible immediately
beneath the barred window, led him to believe that this
communicated with the outer air.

He was disposed to think that his unconsciousness had lasted less
than an hour, and that it was still dark without. He was full of
distrust. He no longer believed his immediate death to have been
decided upon. For some reason it would seem that the group wished
him to live, at any rate, temporarily. But now a complete theory
touching the death of Sir Charles Abingdon had presented itself
to his mind. Knowing little, but suspecting much of the resources
of Fire-Tongue, he endeavoured to avoid contact with anything in
the place.

Night attire was provided in the sleeping chamber, but he did not
avail himself of this hospitality. Absolute silence reigned about
him. Yet so immutable are Nature's laws, that presently Paul
Harley sank back upon the mattresses, and fell asleep.

He awoke, acutely uncomfortable and ill-rested. He found a shaft
of light streaming into the room, and casting shadows of the iron
bars upon the opposite wall. The brass lantern still burned above
him, and the silence remained complete as when he had fallen
asleep. He stood up yawning and stretching himself.

At least, it was good to be still alive. He was vaguely conscious
of the fact that he had been dreaming of Phil Abingdon, and
suppressing a sigh, he clenched his teeth grimly and entered the
little bathroom. There proved to be a plentiful supply of hot and
cold water. At this he sniffed suspiciously, but at last:

He undressed and revelled in the joy of a hot bath, concluding
with a cold plunge. A razor and excellent toilet requisites were
set upon the dressing table, and whilst his imagination whispered
that the soap might be poisoned and the razor possess a septic
blade, he shaved, and having shaved, lighted his pipe and
redressed himself at leisure.

He had nearly completed his toilet when a slight sound in the
outer room arrested his attention. He turned sharply, stepping
through the doorway.

A low carved table, the only one which the apartment boasted,
displayed an excellent English breakfast laid upon a spotless
cover.

"Ah," he murmured, and by the sight was mentally translated to
that celebrated apartment of the palace at Versailles, where
Louis XIV and his notorious favourite once were accustomed to
dine, alone, and unsuitably dressed, the courses being served in
just this fashion.

Harley held his pipe in his hand, and contemplated the repast. It
was only logical to suppose it to be innocuous, and a keen
appetite hastened the issue. He sidetracked his suspicion, and
made an excellent breakfast. So the first day of his captivity
began.

Growing used to the stillness about him, he presently began to
detect, as the hours wore on, distant familiar sounds.
Automobiles on the highroad, trains leaving and entering a tunnel
which he judged to be from two to three miles distant; even human
voices at long intervals.

The noises of an English countryside crept through the barred
windows. Beyond a doubt he was in the house known as Hillside.
Probably at night the lights of London could be seen from the
garden. He was within ordinary telephone call of Chancery Lane.
Yet he resumed his pipe and smiled philosophically. He had hoped
to see the table disappear beneath the floor. As evidence that he
was constantly watched, this had occurred during a brief visit
which he had made to the bedroom in quest of matches.

When he returned the table was in its former place, but the cover
had been removed. He carefully examined the floor beneath it, and
realized that there was no hope of depressing the trap from
above. Then, at an hour which he judged to be that of noon, the
same voice addressed him from beyond the gilded screen.

"By this time, Mr. Harley, you must have recognized that
opposition is futile. At any moment we could visit death upon
you. Escape, on the other hand, is out of the question. We desire
you no harm. For diplomatic reasons, we should prefer you to
live. Our cause is a sacred one. Do not misjudge it by minor
incidents. A short statement and a copy of your English testament
shall be placed upon the table, if you wish."

"You will learn what we mean, if you insist upon withholding your
consent until we next invite it."

"Nevertheless, you may regard it as withheld, definitely and
finally."

Silence fell, and Paul Harley knew himself to be once more alone.
Luncheon appeared upon the table whilst he was washing in the
bathroom. Remembering the change in the tone of the unseen
speaker's voice, he avoided touching anything.

From the divan, through half-closed eyes, he examined every inch
of the walls, seeking for the spy-hole through which he knew
himself to be watched. He detected it at last: a little grating,
like a ventilator, immediately above him where he sat. This
communicated with some room where a silent watcher was constantly
on duty!

Paul Harley gave no sign that he had made this discovery. But
already his keen wits were at work upon a plan. He watched the
bar of light fading, fading, until, judging it to be dinner time,
he retired discreetly.

He wondered for what ordeal the neophyte was prepared in this
singular apartment. He wondered how such neophytes were chosen,
and to what tests they were submitted before being accepted as
members of the bloodthirsty order. He could not even surmise.

Evidently no neophyte had been accepted on the previous night,
unless there were other like chambers in the house. The occupants
of the shuttered cars must therefore have been more advanced
members. He spent the night in the little cell-like bedchamber,
and his second day of captivity began as the first had begun.

For his dinner he had eaten nothing but bread and fruit. For his
breakfast he ate an egg and drank water from the tap in the
bathroom. His plan was now nearing completion. Only one point
remained doubtful.

"You have yet an hour. Your final decision will be demanded of
you at the end of that time."

Faint sounds of withdrawal followed these words and Harley
suddenly discovered himself to be very cold. The note of danger
had touched him. For long it had been silent. Now it clamoured
insistently. He knew beyond all doubt that he was approaching a
crisis in his life. At its nature he could not even guess.

He began to pace the room nervously, listening for he knew not
what. His mind was filled with vague imaginings; when at last
came an overture to the grim test to be imposed upon him.

A slight metallic sound drew his glance in the direction of the
gilded screen. A sliding door of thick plate glass had been
closed behind it, filling the space between the metal work and
the curtain. Then--the light in the brass lantern became
extinguished.

Standing rigidly, fists clenched, Paul Harley watched the
curtain. And as he watched, slowly it was drawn aside. He found
himself looking into a long room which appeared to be practically
unfurnished.

The floor was spread with rugs and at the farther end folding
doors had been opened, so that he could see into a second room,
most elegantly appointed in Persian fashion. Here were silver
lanterns, and many silken cushions, out of which, as from a sea
of colour, arose slender pillars, the scheme possessing an air of
exotic luxury peculiarly Oriental.

Seated in a carved chair over which a leopard skin had been
thrown, and talking earnestly to some invisible companion, whose
conversation seemed wholly to enthrall her, was Phil Abingdon!